The Road to War
by big cheddars
Summary: The period between the first and second Aztec-Scotland wars was fraught with violence and discord, and eventually led to a bloody crusade of conquest. This series of one-shots chronicles this period. More explained inside! Enjoy!
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

Hello all. I thought of this particular gem when I was busy playing Medieval 2 Total War Custom Campaign Mod 2. The mod contains an extra campaign map called Tyronia which shows the fictional continent of Tyronia. The Scottish (me) start on the east side of the big peninsula at the top of the map. The Aztecs start on the west, and the HRE start in the top-right corner (google 'custom campaign mod 2 tyronia map' and see if you can find a version of the map, then this will make more sense. Since it is a made-up continent, it is kinda hard to explain). In roughly thirty years, the Scottish have swarmed over the peninsula and control the bottom half. The Aztecs control the middle and the north, and the HRE are fighting desperately for their survival. One war has been fought against the Aztecs already, and with several provinces (regions) taken, there is an uneasy ceasefire between Scotland and the Aztec Empire. This is what happened in the interim between the first and second Aztec Wars. I will present another chapter each week, chronicling another small event which led to total war between the two most powerful factions on Tyronia.

On a side note, the entire geography of this mod is made up and elaborated by me from what I see on the campaign map. I will try to explain it, but leave it more to your imagination. I will focus more on the storytelling of the events themselves. If you want to envision the Scottish-held former Aztec provinces, think of occupied France during WW2. Just a thought. I have always found it interesting that you can conquer a region and other than public order being a bit difficult to deal with there was no consequence. However, thinking about it, there would be oppression, racism, fighting, killing and lots of crime. This story also explores these themes. Hope you enjoy.


	2. Chapter 1

Angus shaded his eyes with his weathered hand, peering seaward at the sight approaching. The bright Tyronian sun had turned his formerly pale skin tanned and leathery. This land was not a good place for a Scotsman. Angus looked again at the ship coming in. He sighed, and turned to the dark-skinned boy sitting further along the pier dangling a bamboo fishing rod into the scummy water. "Kid! ye ain't gon' catch anything 'cept the plague oot o' this harbour. Now forget that and get the harbour master." The boy looked at him blankly and Angus snarled in frustration. The boy was useless, "Big hat man, ye ken!" He gesticulated with his hands, and the boy scampered off. Angus swore, he was sure the boy did it to spite him.

Angus shaded his eyes again, and glanced at the ship slowly drifting into harbour. He swore again quietly, "Blasted Germans, can't fight their oon war." Despite his words, a little pity crept onto his face as he saw the emaciated figures thronging the ship's rails. The ship limped closer, it was a dirty affair. A slowly rotting hulk of a ship, its sides were caked in barnacles, and the actual planks had a greenish tinge to them. Its sails were drooping and unkempt, and few crew could be seen on deck. Instead, the cramped decks were filled with a brown mass of life that defied any attempt to be called humanity. These people were Germans, fleeing south via the seas to avoid the approaching savages. They had lost everything, likely spending their last coin to seek passage on a fleeing ship. Many such ships had arrived in Scottish-held ports over the past few months. They brought tales of a land ravaged by war, bereft of young man and healthy crops or livestock. The Holy Roman Empire had put everything it had into holding the Aztecs at the river of Brye, and they had failed. Now, Germans ran like sheep from wolves, and as the Aztecs possessed no navy of their own, ships sailed south towards Scottish lands, in hope of salvation.

The ship wallowed alongside the dock Angus stood on, and the Scotsman hailed it aggressively. "Oi! Who's in charge of this shit-hole?"

The ship was only a few metres taller than the dock, and two pale-faced, skinny men laid down a gangplank to bridge the gap. As it touched the boards of the dock, Angus kicked it away angrily. "Who is the captain of this ship?" He yelled, and saw the hateful expressions of the refugees on the deck. A man came to the railing, a young, arrogant looking man with a distasteful sneer on his face.

"Who are you, and how dare you obstruct us!" He cried, "I have nigh on two hundred luckless Germans here desperate for shelter, would you deny them that?" His tone was challenging, and thick with an accent.

"Aye, I would. Does your ship carry plague or soldiers? If so, ye may not anchor here and I will bring the town guard here to shift ye if ye refuse. Until ye answer, none may disembark, and a search will be carried out of this piece of horse shit you Germans call a boat." The ship's captain snorted in disbelief, but Angus stood his ground, chunky arms folded stubbornly across his chest and a cold expression on his face.

Weel, your answer, captain?" Behind Angus, a troop of guards appeared, led by a pompous man wearing a large hat and a ruff. Angus turned, and nodded his respect to his senior. Harbour-master Eoin regarded the ship with inherent disdain, and spoke, "More of them, Angus? Och, let's get this o'er wit'."

Angus nodded, and asked the question again. The captain, seeing the guards with their hands on sheathed swords, answered the question. Several times before captains had refused to comply with the Scottish laws and they had paid for their folly. The whole affair was distasteful for every Scot involved, and Angus tried not to think about the people he saw on the ships or the desperate looks on their faces.

The guards checked the ship and proclaimed it clear, reappearing from below decks with a stench on them and disgusted looks on their faces. The disembarkation proceeded, and Angus wrote down every German's name as they passed him. They were led away from the harbour to temporary housing that had been constructed outside of the port. It was a monotonous process, and the only event that pulled him out of his monotone was a sudden shriek.

Standing by the gangplank, Angus had a good view of the people coming down it, and he was startled from his name-writing when a small woman wrapped in shawls suddenly slipped on the plank. She shrieked wildly, and fell splashing into the water between the ship and the dock. Havoc ensued as Germans began shouting wildly, and Angus peered over the edge of the dock. The woman was thrashing around in the water, and Angus caught a glimpse of wild eyes. A young German was shouting at the captain, and he stammered to Eoin, "Sire, her son says she cannot swim, you must help!"

Eoin looked mystified and annoyed, and gave a curt reply, "She is not my concern, have one of your own men save her, or perhaps her son?" The young German saw the shrug of Eoin's shoulders and erupted into a torrent of abuse, to which the harbour-master simply ignored. Angus stepped back from the pier, and shut his ears to the screams of the German woman. No-one would jump into the water to save her, and her son was irate by his inability to help her. The German crowd watched silently as the woman's struggles slowed, and she eventually sunk silently, eyes facing the sky blankly. Many whispered hushed prayers to the Lord for her safety, but many were struck dumb by their helplessness at this unnecessary death.

The only person not silent, however, was Angus' dark-faced Aztec assistant. The little boy was younger than ten, yet he still laughed cruelly as he sat on a barrel and threw stones at the place where the woman had sank. His dislike of Germans, learnt from his Aztec fellows, was obvious. The German crowd were silent in horror for a few seconds, but the woman's son was not. The man bounded forward, leaping onto the dock and shoving Angus aside. He grabbed the little Aztec, and roared abuse into the infant's face as he grasped its neck. The man shook the boy's body violently, face contorted in anger. His hate was palpable, and Angus saw the intent to kill.

Angus got to his feet, and swung a knotted fist at the man's back. It impacted with a dull crump, and the man staggered. He dropped the Aztec boy, and turned to Angus. Angus was angry too now, and his gripped his adversary's coarse, dirty shirt as he punched him repeatedly in the stomach. "Disrespec'ful. Little. Prick! Hittin' a kid, what 'in God's name do they teach ye in that shit-hole ye came from?" Angus reinforced each word with a punch, and he dropped the man as the German spewed bloody vomit onto the dock. The German gasped in pain, and cowered in front of Angus. The little Aztec boy recovered quickly, and kicked the downed man savagely, spitting clumsily onto his body.

Eoin stepped between Angus and the German, and put a hand on Angus' shoulder. "Enough, laddie, he's had enough. Take his name and he'll spend a night in the cells, and learn your kid some respect!"

Angus grunted his assent, and took the man's name, whispered from the shocked captain's lips. Angus carried on his job, glaring at every German that passed him. He was the subject of many evil glances himself, and the Aztec that huddled behind him had many whispered threats directed at it. Eventually, the task was finished, and only the captain remained with his small crew. Eoin clasped the man's shoulder affably, "ye're a brave man, captain..?"

"Hugo."

"Captain Hugo. Well, ye can be sure those refugees will be treated well. And that poor woman's death... such a shame, we will pray for her."

"Thank you, sire. I will pray too, but she is just one lost soul among many thousands who have died for the Holy Roman Empire. We fight a long war, a bitter war, and I do my part. I only hope the Lord has mercy on my country."

"Of course, go now, and celebrate this small victory. Here, a permit giving you three days of dock here. Ye can rest, resupply, and perhaps go back to your empire and rescue more Germans?"

"Aye sire, that we will, but thank you."

"Of course, captain, goodbye, laddie."

"Goodbye, sire." The captain retreated to his ship, and Eoin and Angus walked off down the pier. Eoin looked back at the ship after stepping over a coil of rope, "Cowardly bastard. He won't fight his country's war, but make a living off of those trying to escape it. Well, at least he gives us a good crop, ye ken."

"Aye, sire. What should I do with the Germans, where should they be put?"

"Wait a day, then get some men together and shift them to Telgrad Mines. I hear they are running out of healthy workers, and those silver mines are valuable."

"Of course, sire. Disrespectful bastards, attacking kids. It mus' be hell back in their empire?"

"What's left of it. They have spirit, but they'll work hard or suffer the whip. Ha! This war is great for business. Boatloads of workers that won't be missed, and the baron don't even care what we use them fo', as long as his chests are filled wit oor... Ah, donations."

Eoin walked off, whispering to himself of money and greed. Angus stared at his boss, and wondered briefly whether it was right to be using the German immigrants as expendable slaves. He crushed the twinge of doubt quickly, and remarked quietly to his Aztec follower. "Stick by me, kid, Ah'm gon'nae be rich off of this. Aye, this war will make my fortune, and one day ye'll thank me." Angus reached up and scratched a sunburn on the back of his neck that was chafing, eyes turned seaward and filled with pictures of money and wealth.


	3. Chapter 2

The assassin waited in shadow.

He didn't move, his entire body tensed and alert, lithe muscles bunching, face as still as a stone, hand held rigidly against his body. He felt the leather grip of the knife in his hand, the feeling alien to him. The Scottish invaders had brought many things to the Aztec Empire, including steel weapons. The sharpness and lightness of the blade was unlike anything he had ever felt, and he felt sure the Gods would reward his daring in obtaining the blade with a kill tonight.

The assassin stood motionlessly in a shadow, body tensed, making no noise. He was in the courtyard of the Scottish lord's residence, a sprawling set of wooden buildings built in the three years since the Scottish had captured the city of Gelo. The assassin heard soft sounds on the dirt path as someone walked down it, and shrank back into the shadow. His cover was simply the shadow cast by the moon being facing the other side of the building, but he knew it would hide him enough. The man walked past the assassin, and the assassin raised his blade slightly, ready to pounce if he was detected. The man was clanking under his armour, and the assassin saw the slight gleam from the metal tip of a spear. A guard then. The assassin spared the guard, staying completely still as the man passed. The guard continued his patrol around the building, and the assassin remained undetected.

The assassin moved properly for the first time, turning and grasping the wall behind him. A small smile marred the assassin's stony features for a second as he gripped the wood. The assassin was a skilled climber, and he quickly ascended the wall. His bare torso was slicked with honey, as were his hands and feet, and the sticky substance helped him stay on the wall as he found his way up. He used every dent, every error, every slight in the alignment of the planks. His hands were wiry claws, seeking any hold in the wall. The assassin estimated it took him half an hour to reach his target, a balcony extending from the side of the building. The assassin wrapped a onto the supporting strut of the balcony, and silently swung himself out and up. The assassin struck out his free hand, and gripped the sill of the balcony, hauling himself up quickly.

The assassin peered over the balcony rim. His height was masked by darkness, but the assassin quickly tied a rope about the balcony sill, giving him a quick route down. So prepared, the assassin drew his blade, turned and stalked through the balcony's open doorway into the bedroom beyond. The room was furnished in tapestries and carpets of the finest cloth of many different dyes. The assassin paused, surveying the room ahead. A plush bed occupied one side of it, and in that bed lay an old man.

The assassin made no noise as he moved across the floor, over carpet and wood. He reached the end of the bed, and stopped for a moment, staring impassively at the figure before him. He let his hate consume him in that brief moment. Hate for everything the Scottish had done to his people. The invasion was not enough for them, no, Aztecs were little more than slaves in captured provinces. The assassin remembered a burning house in a burning city, and six bodies. Mother. Father. Brothers. He remembered the laughing of Scots as they rampaged. He remembered the desperate flight north, to safety. He remembered the years of training. Six hard, gruelling years, filled with blood and tears as he had cultivated his body and mind for revenge. A revenge due to him.

The assassin would have his revenge, he would kill the Scottish general who ruled Gelo from his wooden palace. He would kill this wretched man, and his only regret was that he would have to do it quickly, with little opportunity for pain. The assassin let the pain of his own loss wash across his features, and then raised his blade. The assassin advanced, and looked down upon the Scotsman's face. It was calm, peaceful. His eyes were closed. The assassin rested his blade upon the man's exposed neck, and hardened his gaze quickly.

Then, the man's eyes opened. "Ah would'nae do that, sonny."

The assassin scrambled back in shock, gasping. The man grinned at him, and the assassin suddenly felt the presence of more men in the room. The long tapestries moved, and armed men moved out of hidden alcoves. The assassin whirled, fear distorting his features. Four men, each holding a gleaming sword, grim smiles on their faces as they closed in.

The assassin snarled, turned, and ducked beneath a questing sword. He slashed wildly, distracting a guard, and threw himself into a gap. He rolled, jumped up, and sprinted across the balcony. He leaped over the railing, and grabbed onto his rope.

There were shouts above him, and suddenly the rope went slack above him. The assassin cursed, and fell heavily onto the ground. He struggled up, one hand still clutching his knife. Glancing around him, the assassin saw to his dismay that he was surrounded yet again. More guards, how had they got here so fast. The answer hit like a thunderbolt, a trap! The assassin had been trapped.

The assassin felt despair rising up as the Scots advanced, armoured figures carrying lanterns and weapons. Soon he was surrounded by a circle of cruel faces and sharp weapons. The assassin collapsed to the ground, tears in his eyes. He had failed, failed his people, his family. He had failed in the one thing he had wanted. Revenge. The assassin looked skyward, fully expecting death. He prayed, a prayer to every God, a prayer for forgiveness for his failure.

The assassin hung his head limply as a Scot moved forwards with a club, and then everything went black.

* * *

><p>The feeling of life returned, and groggily the assassin opened his eyes. His vision was murky, but something pink was swimming in front of him.<p>

"E's awake, lord." The pink thing made a loud, strange noise, and the assassin groaned in protest.

"Ha, bet ye thought we were gonna butcher you, assassin. Nah, the lord's got a better idea. Just ye wait, kid, and make the most of not having to talk, for ye'll be talking soon enough." The pink thing spoke again, close to the assassin's face.


	4. Chapter 3

Justice. A small word, but a very important one to a hangman.

Justice.

Justice and punishment go hand-in-hand, and are in many ways directly related to one another. Justice cannot be done without the right punishment, and there can be no punishment without the right justice having been passed. A hangman's job is to carry out the punishment justice has ordained, and to do so with complete faith that this punishment is the right one. The hangman that questions justice is the hangman who questions punishment, and the hangman that questions punishment is no longer a hangman, but a killer. Any man can be a killer, but it takes someone with true dedication to be an executioner

The priest's voice carried far across the silent square, a strong voice, used to preaching loudly from the pulpit. The rites finished, the priest crossed himself in front of the nooses, and turned away. He walked quickly down the wooden steps of the frame, giving Colin a tight-lipped smile as he passed the hangman. Colin stared back impassively, the black hood masking his face to the crowd. Some preferred not to wear the mask, so the condemned could see the conviction in their faces as they placed the noose around their neck. Colin had faced too many defiant grimaces, heard too many whispered final threats. For him the grim visage of the hood, and the anonymity he gratefully accepted.

Colin ascended the stairs, slow steps, his boots thumping the wood. The condemned were a fickle race, wily and fearful, yet at the same time prone to insane last periods of bravery. Every one was bound, and menaced by a spear-holding guard, as insurance . Colin reached the top, and turned. The condemned were in a line, facing the silent crowd, and Colin stepped up to the first with a slow, menacing tread. There was an art to conducting yourself that Colin had mastered years ago. The slow, impassive tread, the strong hands securing the rope, the blank stare afforded by the mask, they all inspired fear in the condemned.

The first was young. A girl, wearing a rough cotton dress. Colin lifted his hand to the rope, and pulled it slowly over her head. Gloved fingertips brushed her skin, and Colin fought hard to keep his hand steady. He stared once into her eyes as he tightened the noose, and saw the fear he saw in most of them. She was wide-eyed, trembling slightly, hazel pupils seeking any hint of emotion in the slits of the mask. Colin gave her none, and turned his head slowly to the second. He lifted a foot, and took two sweeping steps to the next noose.

The second was the first's mother, he could see that at once. They shared the same small mouth and dark hazel eyes. They had the same fear, too. The second was murmuring, lips rushing through quiet words. Prayers, no doubt. The Aztecs loved their prayers, they had so many different Gods and spirits there was a prayer for nearly everything. The woman trembled as Colin's gloves touched her cheek, and she shrank back and shook her head slightly as his fingers secured the noose. He turned again, and moved to the third.

The third was a little boy, stood on a small stool, his eyes filled with curiosity for the black-clothed man in front of him. The noose had to be adjusted, and Colin worked it without thinking, measuring in his head the length needed. He felt something stir in him as the boy smiled when the rope went over his neck. He was little more than three years old, and didn't understand what was happening. Colin crushed the shred of responsibility, and spoke tersely. "Stay still, don't fall off." The boy nodded, evidently pleased at hearing Colin's voice. Colin allowed himself one gesture of emotion, and patted the boy on his head as he straightened up. He chanced a look at the crowd, something he never did, and saw they were still silent, silent and staring.

The fourth was a man. A middle-aged, dark skinned Aztec. Colin wasn't gentle with him, and tightened the noose sharply, cutting off the whispered curses. He glared inside his hood, and lingered for a second, eyes fixed with the man's in a battle of will. The man turned away first, eyes filling with tears as his resolve collapsed. Colin left him silently weeping, and moved onto the fifth. The fifth was another man, with a long hooked nose that Colin had to force the noose over. This one was silent, and Colin respected that. If the women or children cried, well that was normal. But a man, a grown man weeping in front of the crowd before he died. Those ones disgusted Colin.

The sixth was another woman. Hard-edged. Her body was straining against her bonds, and her face spoke of a life of defiance and hard work. She didn't even attempt to whisper her piece, but spoke in a harsh voice. "This is wrong! We didn't do anything. Can't you see, you blind idiot! We didn't do anything!" Her voice broke, and she started howling abuse at Colin, tears streaming down her face.

Colin slapped her, gloved hand smacking her mouth shut. Her voice was snuffed out in a sudden squeal, Clin attempted to keep his composure, tried to stay impassive, but snarled darkly as he turned away. "Fool! Do you think I care why you are here."

The sixth stayed silent, but Colin could feel her gaze on the back of his neck, the silent, unfair rage prickling his skin as he stepped up to the lever. He gripped the polished wood, felt the familiar knots and bumps through his gloves. He knew they were all looking at him, the crowd, the condemned. Everyone in the square. Colin savoured it for a moment, and almost looked around. He turned his head slightly, and smiled inside his mask.

He shoved the lever over, and heard the familiar clank as the panels dropped. He closed his eyes to the sounds, as he always did. They would come back to him later, he knew it. The gasping, the writhing sound as they tried to get air, the liquid sound as their bowels emptied. These condemned took a long time to die, several shrill screams emerging from choked mouths. They eventually stopped moving, and the sounds went. It was an awful sound; Muted gasping as they tried to breathe, the fragments of words, the frantic kicking. It was replaced by the slow drip of piss, and Colin opened his eyes again.

He walked stiffly to the sixth, and took one look at the intense terror frozen on her face. He ignored the feeling rising in his gut, and walked on. The fifth had not cried, and had died with at least some dignity, eyes closed and jaw locked in a final grimace. The fourth had the same look as the sixth. Colin walked past the third, not looking at the boy. Not looking, not seeing anything. His imagination filled in the blank, and Colin saw that small face contorted in horror as the boy realise what was happening. He opened his eyes, not realising he had had them screwed up. He took one look, to satisfy his desire for closure.

The boy's visage struck real fear into Colin's soul. His face had a look of deep betrayal on them, and his mouth was open, as if asking... "Why?"

Colin turned away quickly, not wanting to gaze again into those terror-filled eyes – eyes that had not seen any hardship, but eyes filled with such pain. The image stayed imprinted on his eyes, and he cursed himself for looking. He stood still for a second, trying to face the image that would haunt him if he didn't confront it now. He breathed deeply, and opened his eyes again, throwing the memory away where he put all the other faces he had seen. This was justice. He carried out justice through punishment, and this was what had been decided.

The image of the sixth shouting at him came back into Colin's head, but he shoved it away, and continued on. He forced himself not to care, shoving his feelings down forcefully at the looks on the mother and daughter's faces. They had died roughly together, weeping pitifully at the end. Colin reached the end of the line, and turned to the crowd. He shouted, the words that normally came so easily to his lips quavering in the wind. "Justice has been done here! Let this be a warning to all those who would commit a crime in Scottish lands!"


End file.
